


behind closed doors

by inamamagic



Category: All For One (Web Series)
Genre: Before anything else aired, F/M, This is just me meandering, post s2e6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 12:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14081067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamamagic/pseuds/inamamagic
Summary: Henry and Treville have a little chat after the livestream.





	behind closed doors

Henry manages to keep his smile on his face until he’s off camera and out of the room. His fingers curl into his fists, pressing down till the pressure on his knuckles grows into a harsh ache.

“Henry,” says Alex, placing a hand on his shoulder, but her gentleness doesn’t do shit for him today, not when he’s wrought with fury that’s hissing and crackling across his bones.

A scuffling by the door makes them look. Portia and Dorothy scramble out, Dorothy still trying to calm down an infuriated Portia. Her stammering attempts are doing nothing. The moment Portia’s eyes lock onto Henry’s, they narrow, and her nostrils flare out. Henry clenches his teeth. Both of them square off. 

Dorothy flings an arm in front of Portia. “Hey _no_. Let’s not go there.”

“Get out of the way Dorothy,” Portia growls.

“Yeah Dorothy,” says Henry, crossing his arms as he shrugs off Alex’s soft attempt to try to get him to back away. “Get out of the way.”

“Well that was quite something wasn’t it?” 

Anne’s heels click on the wooden floors as she strides towards them, her plastic smile in place, fingers clasped, hair in a neat braid over her shoulder. “Portia. Dorothy. Could I have a quick word please?”

Portia’s whole body heaves with the strength of her anger, and Henry swallows hard. It’s mad to think that just a few days ago they were fine. Or as fine as fine could be anyway. Henry’d lost count of the number of hurdles he’d had to leap over to make things right between them, but he’d been too optimistic to notice all the ones he’d knocked over in the process that are now coming back to penalise him.

So much for _friends_. 

Another voice enters the fray. “Henry?”

Anne’s entire body stiffens and her face hardens into a poor approximation of a civil expression. The sound of Treville’s heels echo in the empty corridor, as heavy as Anne’s were light. Henry appreciates the way she’s so open about her hurt. She’s transparent where Anne is opaque, clear about her motivations where the other girl hides her truth under multicoloured layers of compliments and charm.

“I’d like for us to have a post-mortem to discuss the speech,” says Treville, reaching him finally and placing a hand on his bicep. Unlike Alex’s soothing touch, her firmness grounds him, pulling him away from his fury.

Turning around, he leaves without a word, blocking out the sound of Portia’s yells.

He stares at Treville’s legs as they walk. Her strides are always purposeful, just like her attitude. She’s not someone who does anything without meaning it, be it good or bad. Which is why when she’d accepted his offer to become VP, he’d been filled with a sort of validation that he hadn’t even realised he’d been craving.

He probably should’ve latched onto that feeling a lot sooner, but he’d really been a little too busy suppressing the niggling fear that Portia’d never actually forgive him for what he did to pay attention to his doubts.

“Alex,” says Treville as they approach her room. “Would you mind so terribly giving Henry and I a little bit of privacy?”

Henry doesn’t miss the way Alex’s eyes grow sad as she nods and walks away. He knows she’s not okay. Anyone with two eyes and a soul can see that, but because she seems to be trying not to focus on it, he doesn’t push her to tell. Sometimes he wonders if that’s the right thing to do.

He walks into Treville’s room and lets her shut the door behind them. Every time he comes in here, he never fails to notice how neat it is, almost exactly like Portia’s. Everything is alphabetised and kept in its place. The only difference being that Treville prefers monochromatic colours schemes, while Portia’s room is an explosion of colour that would cheer up even the most cynical of people.

He’d know. It did that for him.

He sits down in an armchair by the side of the door. Treville walks over to her bookshelf.

“You know,” he says, looking around the room, “I don’t think I’ll ever get over the fact that Anne never gave _you_ a big room, even after you started dating.”

There’s no response to this. Henry hears a creaking noise and a clinking of glass, and Treville emerges, having seemingly conjured up a bottle of wine and two glasses out of nowhere. She shuts a drawer and locks it.

“A toast is in order perhaps,” she says. “To your brilliance.”

Henry chuckles and shakes his head. Treville smiles at him. It’s something she’s been doing more often lately. He marvels at the change it brings to her face whenever she does. It makes her beauty less frightening, and more… within reach, so to speak. Like he could kiss her without being afraid she’d stab him with her heel.

(He’s thought about this a fair few times.)

“Say when,” she says, handing him the glass and unscrewing the bottle cap. “As much as I’d like to have good wine, we have to make do with whatever supermarket moonshine we can get.”

Henry grins. “Anything that’s been around you is made better by your presence.”

“Oh hush you,” says Treville. Henry holds up his glass. “Say when,” she says, starting to pour. He watches the red stream flowing into the glass, going down smooth as anything with barely a splash. Mesmerised, he barely thinks to say when until the glass is entirely full.

“Ordinarily I’d say that’s much too much wine,” says Treville, pouring herself her own full glass. “But I think you might need something to take the edge off.”

“Yeah.” Henry leans back. Treville raises her glass. “To you, Henry Abscale. For not completely losing it up there.”

Henry shakes his head, taking a gulp of wine as Treville sips hers. “I did lose it though.”

“Anyone would have,” says Treville. “Under such constant harassment? We all have our breaking points. And I admire you for not having snapped the way you once might’ve.”

Henry grimaces. “Yeah well. I used to be a lot angrier about things.”

Treville pulls her desk chair into the middle of the room. It’s nothing but a regular office chair, but from the way she sits on it, it might as well be her throne.

_His lap could be her throne and he’d be more than happy to provide._

Henry gulps down another swallow of wine to suppress the sudden thought, wincing a little as it goes. It’s not a completely foreign idea though. His mind does wander sometimes, but he doesn’t ever think to _dwell_ on those thoughts. It’s _Treville_. She’s way up there, even thought they’re working together and she’s shown herself to be sweet, gentle, and a total dork at times.

Also her hashtags are ridiculous and technology in general seems to engender an adorable confusion in her that Henry’s fast growing very fond of.

“How are you feeling though?” says Treville, her tone growing softer. “Really. That can’t have been pleasant up there.”

“That’s an understatement,” says Henry with a chuckle. He examines the side of the glass, watching the way it gleams in the light.

“I’m sorry she hasn’t been able to forgive you,” says Treville.

“No, it’s fine,” says Henry, waving a hand. “She has every right.”

“To not forgive you, yes she does,” says Treville. “But to shame you in front of all our sisters and the wider university community? That’s going a little too far I think.”

“She gets to.” The defence comes so naturally to him, he’s startled.

“Does she?” Treville gives him a stern look. “I think she’s punished you enough for dragging her along with what all of you did, don’t you?”

“Well it wasn’t like it was something small —”

“It wasn’t,” says Treville. “Not in the least. But I’d say… under the circumstances… justified.”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “That’s a surprise coming from you,” he says. Treville just smiles.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she says. “Sometimes —”

A ding sounds from her laptop and she turns to her desk, leaving Henry wondering what she might’ve said to him. The side of her lips quirk up as she looks through her twitter feed. “We’ve got some good feedback,” she says.

Henry goes up to her and leans towards the screen, smiling as he reads the tweets. “Told you they’d love you,” he says. “You had nothing to worry about.”

Treville’s face lights up. Henry puts a tentative hand on her back, relieved when she just continues to scroll, until —

“My support is with Portia Vallon, because I do not believe in backing a campaign based solely on slander and personal vengeance?”

Her voice hitches at the end of the sentence, incredulous and teetering on the edge of the precipice that Henry and Alex had spent the whole of the previous night trying to pull her up from. He squints at the screen. The tweet is from Anne.

“Ignore it,” he says, but Treville’s fingers are already on the keyboard and smashing away as he speaks. He puts a hand over hers. “Jeanne. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

Treville hesitates for all of a second before slamming her laptop shut, fingers trembling. She grabs her glass of wine and takes a huge gulp. Henry slips his own fingers through hers. “Hey,” he says, putting his own glass of wine on the desk. Treville’s lips turn down and Henry strokes the back of her palm. “We’re not gonna let her do that,” he says. “Not this time. Alex and I have your back okay? We’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Treville’s head snaps up. The intensity in her eyes almost floors him and she stands.

“Do you mean that?” she asks.

“Yeah of course,” says Henry. “I’m your VP, it’s my job to —”

“VP. Right.” Treville pulls her hand away and steps back. “I understand.”

“No, Jeanne…” Henry steps towards her. “It’s not my job - I mean. It’s my job, yes. But it’s primarily because you’re my friend. I care about you. I care about how you feel.”

Treville clears her throat and takes a shuddering breath. Then, as though nothing has happened at all, her composure returns. 

“Forgive me,” she says. “I may have overreacted a tad.”

Henry smiles. “You weren’t overreacting,” he says. “Not in the least.”

Treville’s lips twitch a little. “Thank you Henry,” she says. “You are surprisingly reassuring.”

This makes Henry laugh hard enough for his shoulders to shake. “Surprisingly?” he says.

A tiny smile flicker onto her face. “You’re not known to be particularly reassuring,” she says. “Quite the opposite. It’s one of your defining characteristics.”

“Well I am a man of many secrets,” says Henry, stepping towards her with his hands in his pockets. He glances at the ground and then back up at her again. In her heels, she’s a couple of inches taller than him. Her floral perfume wafts towards him as she brushes her hair over her shoulder.

“It would seem so,” says Treville. “You’ve proven yourself to be more exceptional than I would’ve ever thought.” Her eyes flick over his face, dropping down before looking back at him again. “You have a lot to be proud of, Henry.”

“So do you,” says Henry, taking another step towards her and taking her hand. “If - no, not if, _when_ you become President, MST is going to be amazing. Everyone admires you, and you’re _very_ capable.” He slips his fingers through hers again. “And of course it doesn’t hurt that you’re easy on the eyes.”

To his utter surprise, Treville laughs. “You can be so charming when you want to be,” she says. “Perhaps it’s a good thing you’re so brash. Wouldn’t want to have all the girls falling for you. The house would never function.”

“Now look who’s charming,” says Henry with a smile. Treville steps closer to him and squeezes his hand, and his mouth runs away without his brain. “God you’re hot,” he whispers.

“I know,” she says, and her eyes twinkle in the mischievous way they do when she has a good idea. “So are you.”

Henry’s face burns. “I think that’s a matter of opinion.”

“Oh everything is,” says Treville. “It only counts when it comes from the people that matter.”

A strange and almost suffocating sense of impulsive bravado takes hold of him. He’s only felt this way a few times in his life, two fo the most recent being when he’d joined MST, and when he’d kissed Portia for the first time.

He slides a hand over Treville’s cheek and kisses her. Treville’s response is breathless and enthusiastic, slightly wine-soaked but eager. His heart races.

“Jeanne,” he mumbles, trying to pull away, but she pulls him back.

“This isn’t a mistake,” she breathes against his lips. “I’m kissing you back because I want to.”

“Good to know,” says Henry, relief cooling his insides. Treville clutches his sweater, pulling him back till they collapse onto the bed. There’s nothing restrained about the way she kisses him, like she’s hungry for him and she’s been waiting.

The first moan that falls from her lips sets Henry’s skin aflame. His fingers find their way into her hair, getting tangled in the soft brown locks. She pushes him down and kicks off her heels, and even through two layers of clothing, he can feel her nails digging into his sides.

Every inch of her is warm, even when their clothes come off and the sparking touch of their skin sets Henry off. He runs his hands over her smooth back, finding the clasp of her bra and unhooking it with one hand. This earns him an appreciative smile.

“Nice work,” she whispers. “That merits a reward I think.”

An unrestrained, flustered giggle escapes his throat, only to be swallowed by a moan as she kisses her way down his throat. Her hands don’t wander into odd directions, she keeps them over his shoulders, occasionally dropping down to his back, but never anywhere else.

“Tell me what you like,” she whispers, and even though Henry hasn’t slept with anyone else since Portia and his transition, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t learned about himself on his own.

He takes her hands and kisses her fingertips, keeping his eyes on hers. She watches him, chest rising and falling as she catches her breath, cheeks flushed as he leans close and kisses her bottom lip.

He guides her slowly, tentatively at first, but she’s a fast learner. Her lips have him shuddering and moaning underneath her as he clutches the sheets to keep himself from being too loud. She switches to her hands, using her mouth to silence him, letting him breathe his stuttered utterances of pleasure against her lips.

“Tell me if it’s not good,” she murmurs, flicking a tongue over his earlobe. He shudders, the sparks making his heart race, a shaking yes leaving his lips.

She’s careful, a little too careful at points, making Henry squirm in frustration.

“Jeanne,” he whispers. “Come on.” He taps her hip and then his lap. Treville smirks as she straddles him. 

“Yes?” she purrs, running her fingers through his hair, pulling it back so she can kiss him hard. “What do you need?”

“For you to be less careful,” he whispers. Treville chuckles.

“Alright,” she says. “But maybe you can do a little something for me first.”

“Anything.”

She laughs again, and Henry runs a finger down her cheek, drinking in her gorgeousness. “You’re eager.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” he says, curling a lock of her hair around his finger.

Treville gets off his lap and lies down next to him, spreading her legs. He doesn’t need a verbal cue to understand. He gets on top of her and smirks when she tugs him down.

“Mouth or fingers?” he asks with a wink. Treville bites her bottom lip, a flush growing in her cheeks, pushing his head down between her legs.

He loses himself in the way she grips the sheets tight enough to tug them off the bed. The way she writhes under his mouth, arching her hips up and shuddering. One of her hands return to Henry’s hair, pulling hard enough for his scalp to momentarily spark with pain. He winces. She lets go.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes.

“Hah, don’t be,” he says, placing a soft kiss on the inside of her thigh. He moves up so he can kiss her again, but she flips him over and he lands with a grunt. She covers his lips with hers, and her hair falls over both their faces.

Henry takes her by the waist, pulling her close. Their bodies curl together, legs between each other’s, breathless kisses covering every inch of each other. There’s nothing between them tonight, not even their thoughts (although Henry doesn’t know whether this rings through for Treville as much as it does for him). To lose yourself in a feeling is a rare luxury, and he takes advantage of not having to think too hard about what’s happening for once.

As Treville’s breathing grows shallower, Henry slows down, smiling when she lets out a tiny whine. “Why…” she whispers.

“Just wanted to take my time,” he says, kissing her forehead. A glimmering line of sweat dots her hairline. She tugs at his hand. 

“I have more stamina than you think,” she purrs, eyes fluttering open. “I can go all night if you want me to. And we have nothing to do till tomorrow afternoon.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, and she smirks and pulls him close again.

“Fuck is right. Come on Henry. Show me what you’re good at.”

Hearing the word come out of her mouth when the worst word she’s ever said till now has been ‘damn’ makes Henry tremble. He props himself up on his arm and slides a hand over her side. Treville’s smirk grows into a genuine smile when she rolls over on top of him. Their hands roam over each other’s bodies and their lips resume their exploration, learning the way their skin feels, smooth in places, rough in others, and in Treville’s case, scarred on her lower back where she’d been in a car accident when she was six. Henry’s fingers linger over it, and the rest of Treville’s skin erupts in goosebumps. He runs a finger over her side, making her shiver, and when he dips his hand between her legs, she whimpers his name.

The hours slip by without them noticing. Treville hadn’t been lying about her stamina. Henry thought _he_ had energy, but it’s nothing compared to her ironclad determination. 

They fall asleep in each other’s arms, thoroughly exhausted and satisfied. They’re up again much too quickly, because Treville’s phone rings with some emergency that neither one of them are too inclined to handle. Henry never would’ve expected Treville to be the kind of person to slam snooze on her alarm ten times before dragging herself out of bed, bleary eyed and grumpy. It makes his reluctance to get out of bed seem mild in comparison.

“Hey, wait for me to get dressed,” she mumbles, slipping into her shirt and skirt. “Don’t leave yet.” Henry nods, too sleepy to speak, and she pats his arm in a distracted way before sliding out of bed.

They dress themselves in silence, but by the time Henry’s pulled his sweater over his head, he’s feeling decidedly more awake than usual. His heart clenches, as does his stomach, and he glances at Treville, who’s smoothing down the front of her blouse. She brushes her hair back and ties it into a low ponytail before she steps into her heels. Grabbing her perfume off the table, she spritzes herself twice and clears her throat.

“Thank you for waiting,” she says quietly, striding towards the door, but she pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “About last night.”

“We can discuss it later,” he says. “When we have time.”

Treville looks at him, brow furrowed with guilt. “I want you to know that I was not taking advantage of you,” she says. “That’s not what it was. I don’t do anything without good reason. But if it felt that way, I apologise.”

“Hey, hey.” Henry hurries towards her. “I know you wouldn’t. I trust you.”

Treville gives him a tight lipped smile and pats his arm before opening the door. They step outside and Henry notices that the zip on Treville’s skirt isn’t done up entirely.

“Jeanne, your skirt,” he says. Treville looks down, but Henry’s got his fingers on the zip and has tugged it up before she can even touch it.

“Oh, thank you Henry,” she says, and shuts the door behind them. 

“No problem,” he says. They turn around, intending on going downstairs, but stop short when they see Portia and Anne staring at them, eyes wide in disbelief. Henry knows what this might look like. They’re both in yesterday’s clothes. He’s just done up her zip. It looks exactly like what it is.

Portia’s expression makes his heart hurt. Next to him, the tiniest of groans escapes Treville’s throat.

“Well,” says Anne. “Didn’t think that you’d be one to let your politics get personal, Jeanne.”

Henry glances at Portia, who looks away from him. Her lower lip is trembling, and it makes his chest ache.

“You’re the only one making things personal Anne,” says Treville coldly. “Please excuse us.” 

She strides off and Henry tears his gaze away from Portia and follows her.


End file.
